


From Under the Ice

by TheDreamsOfTheAges (LadyOfTheSouthernIsles)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-09-26 11:05:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9892619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyOfTheSouthernIsles/pseuds/TheDreamsOfTheAges
Summary: .The light of day in his eyes, a longing for life... And a past he needs to make peace with.





	1. Nothing Quiet in Here

**Author's Note:**

> _Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from this work._

_A wiped mind is a quiet mind_ _…_

The light of day in his eyes, a longing for life: the choice is his. _Zhelaniye_. He speaks, breathes rusted words from dead men’s tongues. There’s nothing left of choice at all. _Rzhavyy_. Seventeen lions, the price too high. He’s forced to pay it anyway. _Semnadtsat_. His soul. And the daybreak of another age - _Rassvet_ \- in a blazing furnace of ice. _Pech_. Every face, there with him now (how they’d loved their lives, then came the assassin) while the nine-headed serpent shreds the ghost and the gods of the Nine Realms weep but not for him. _Devyat_. For him. The long cold sleep. _Dobroserdechnyy_. An absence of death, benign. And the world, it turns. To coming home and ‘mission report’. Another head to nail to the door. _Vozvrashcheniye na rodinu._ The One called ‘friend’. Found wanting in his damning eyes, an empty heart and heartless mind: a twisted, broken thing. Oh, _Odin_. Then the freight car falls. Or he’s falling. _Gruzovoy vagon._ And falls, warm light on his face, the sun and a longing for life: a world of choice before him. But the words tumble out of the newsagent’s eyes, and his mind becomes meat for the grinder.

_…and there’s nothing quiet in here._

 

* * *

 

"Bring him out."

The med tech's eyes widened in surprise. "You - you are certain, sir?"

T'Challa turned to face her. The question was not an unreasonable one and he softened his tone. "Bring him out. We will have to take the risk." He glanced down at the charts in his hand, at the spiked lines of a mind in distress and a body fighting to save it. He had thought about nothing else for the last two days, ever since the doctors had shown him the change in the readings, and it always came back to this. Yet no one was in any way ready for it, least of all the man in the cryo-chamber. T'Challa looked up and met Zukelwa's uneasy gaze. "It's the only thing we can do."

"Yes sir," she said. "I'll assemble the team at once."

As she turned to walk away, the Wakandan king spoke again, more to himself than to her. "And I will see to the rest." He continued to stare at the frozen man behind the viewing pane, and Zukelwa nodded and left the room.

It had been difficult enough keeping the world at bay when James Barnes was in cryo; it would be harder once they brought him out. Even here in Wakanda there was a need to keep his presence a secret from all but a select group: the designers and engineers who were working on a replacement vibranium arm for him, the scientists who were still trying to devise a way to neutralize the Hydra trigger words, and a few trusted advisors. Of necessity, that group would grow in size now; Barnes would need the support of a range of therapists once he was out of stasis, and there were security measures to put in place. T'Challa knew he might lose control of the situation at any moment. Enough people were already suspicious, both inside and outside of Wakanda, but he was as determined as ever to salvage something out of the senseless death of his father. It wasn't easy though...

 _The Winter Soldier._ That was all that the United Nations saw, all the governments of the world and various law enforcement agencies saw. All that Tony Stark saw. And they all wanted James Barnes to pay for what the Soldier had done as Hydra's brainwashed, weaponized 'asset'. That Barnes had also been a victim seemed to count for nothing. T'Challa had quickly realised the futility of trying to change their minds when he had turned Zemo over to the CIA and so he had heeded his inner voice and kept silent on Barnes's whereabouts. He would continue to provide sanctuary to the man until he was as mentally whole and healed as possible and although Barnes would eventually have to face a reckoning of one sort or another, if he could do so with a fighting chance then T'Challa would count himself satisfied with that.

For now though, there were more immediate practicalities to see to. There was a lot that had to be arranged over the next twenty-four hours and there were certain people outside of Wakanda who needed to know about this latest development. After one last look at James Barnes, T'Challa turned on his heel and left the lab.

… … …

It was the warm sun on his face that broke through the drift of sleep and for a few moments the day seemed no different to any other: sluggish air creeping in through the window, the choking smell of exhaust fumes rising up from the street below, the discordant sound of humanity as it barreled along through another sticky summer morning. But then the previous day's news roared to life in Steve's head and the new day morphed into something altogether different.

_They'd woken him up. Bucky. Brought him out of cryo._

Steve flung his forearm over his eyes and groaned. Not enough sleep and too many thoughts. Still, he was surprised he had slept at all. His mind had gone into overdrive after Professor Sontonga had delivered T'Challa's message.

She had bumped into him by the coffee cart, knocking his drink out of his hand. _My fault_ , she said. _Please, let me buy you a new one._ He had recognized the Wakandan accent straight away, if not the woman herself. A seemingly accidental meeting then (because there was always someone watching), and in person (because there was always someone listening on the wires.)

A few doors along, coffees in hand, they had sat on the tattered stoop of an old building, expressions neutral, reactions dialed down: just shooting the breeze as far as anyone was concerned.

Today was her fourth day of seven in New York, she told him. A visit arranged at short notice to deliver a lecture at Columbia, which she had done yesterday. She would be sightseeing for the next few days before flying back to Wakanda. _Oh, and by the way, your friend is awake._

There had been the briefest pause and then Steve had asked, _Cured?_

 _No_ , she replied. His friend had been dreaming in stasis... nightmares really. Unheard of before, and kinder to bring him out rather than leave him in there, suffering in frozen silence.

 _I can be there in two day_ s, Steve had said.

Her reply had been another 'no'. The governments of the world, and Tony Stark, and all the other forces arrayed against James Buchanan Barnes were watching Wakanda as closely as ever. Captain Rogers' presence would only fuel their suspicions. He should stay here in Brooklyn for the time being, and could trust that precautions had been put in place and alternative therapies were being trialed with his friend.

She was right, Steve realized. A lot of questions would be asked if he took off for Wakanda now. He didn't want to make things any more difficult for T'Challa - and, by extension, Bucky - than they already were. There was nothing he could do. At least, not yet. So he had chatted with the older woman for a few minutes more - about the weather, some sights she might like to see - and then he'd thanked her and wished her a safe trip home, and they had gone their separate ways...

 _Time to get moving._ Tossing back the covers, Steve sat up. _Carry on as if it were any other day._ He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. He was due for work at the Veterans' Center in an hour and then later that evening he was going over to Sam's place for dinner. Sharon was up from D.C. so she would be there too. _Just another normal day._ He could tell them the news.

 


	2. Alone in My Casket

__

_Choking on ice. No one knows he_ _'s alive. He's been here before, served up for Death. The other five died in formaldehyde jars. "In their sleep," says Zemo. Tells him he'll die in his. And he's caught. Can't move. Knows what's coming. Sometimes it's Pierce, other times Karpov. Or Peggy or Stark. Howard and Maria. Or Fury or Wilson. There's plenty lined up. And Mom and Rebecca. Tonight, it's Steve. And they're all lined up for their pound of flesh. Hard cold metal pressed to his temple. Steve racks the slide and chambers the round. He tries to scream 'No!' but his mouth is stitched shut and the firing pin clicks as Steve pulls the trigger-_

Bucky sat bolt upright in bed, tensed for the shot. Put out an arm to brace himself - an arm that wasn't there - and fell. Instinct kicked in, or maybe an old memory of pain. He twisted his torso, flipped onto his other side before his stump hit the mattress, and lay there gasping for air, his heart pounding in his chest, skin slick with sweat. A nightmare, he realized as the urgency faded. He'd had it before. He rolled onto his back and forced his breathing to slow, willed his muscles to relax.

When he was in control again, he pushed himself up with the arm he still had and got out of bed. Ran his hand through his hair, caught sight of himself in the mirror. Flashbacked to another life… _Brooklyn, early 1930s. Him and Steve still kids. Saturday afternoon, sneaking into the movies._ _Colin Clive shouting,_ _"It's alive!" Boris Karloff writhing in flames. Frankenstein's monster. Dead men remade…_

He tore his gaze away from his reflection. No wonder the world wanted him locked away. Better if his caretakers had kept him in cryo - a kind of a prison anyway - but thank God they hadn't. At least he could wake up, escape from the nightmares. Except he couldn't, not really. The waking hours carried their own special torment - the knowledge of what he had been, what he had done. The sick feeling that he would never be able to make up for even a fraction of it... Whatever happened to him now, well, he had it coming. But he sure as hell didn't want to be frozen again.

He'd only done it for Steve, and maybe the others who had helped him (though he knew they were really only helping Steve.) From start to finish, he had been nothing but bad news. Three, four years ago, he would have killed any and all of them without hesitation and now he had cost them their jobs, their reputations, family and friends, and even their freedom in one way or another. He had driven a wedge between Steve and Tony Stark, and because of him the Avengers had ripped themselves apart, in every way they could. And worst of all, Steve had lost the life he'd made for himself in this new century.

Afterwards, during those first few weeks when the Cap had stayed with him here in Wakanda, his friend had tried to convince him it was Zemo and the Sokovia Accords that had ruined everything; it was just crummy luck that Bucky had been caught in the middle of it all. But Bucky knew better. He'd figured going back on ice was the only decent thing to do. No more bad news and never mind how he felt at the thought of stepping back into another one of those suffocating cryo-chambers, left behind once again while the world moved on. He had managed as much of a smile as he was capable of that day, and then he'd taken a deep breath and closed his eyes. _The best thing. For everybody_ …

But not for him as it turned out. He had never had any concept of time passing in cryo before. No dreams either. Until this last stretch. And then he’d learned the true meaning of the words ‘eternal damnation’. T’Challa said things had been normal for the first year or so and then his readings had gone off the charts. That was when the nightmares had started, or so they told him. They’d brought him out less than a week later, but that handful of days had taken him to the end of time and back again. Everyone he’d ever killed had been there with him and he’d killed them all again. Over and over until he was drenched in their blood, had the sick-sweet stench of it in his nostrils, the metal-tang taste in his mouth. He was so stuffed full of shame it was a wonder he could move, and yet he pulled the trigger, wielded the knife, snuffed out lives like they were nothing. There was no stopping him. And the words too, in his blood and his bones, his very sinews. Holding him fast, tearing him apart. He had no idea where the Winter Soldier ended and James Buchanan Barnes began, and that terrified him almost beyond bearing. When they’d dragged him out of the chamber, his near-collapse had been due more to relief than the physical effects of coming out of cryo.

And he tried not to think about that too much either. Because for a brief, shining moment he had thought he was cured, or about to be cured. _Why else would they bring him out?_ It had been a kick in the guts to discover the Wakandan scientists weren't even close to getting rid of the trigger words Hydra had seared into his brain. Might never be…

Clenching his fist, he put the brakes on his thoughts. Stared around the room. Tried to find something - anything - to distract himself. A waste of time, he knew, but it sure beat the hell out of spending time inside his own head. The suite he had been given was bland and business-like, set aside for visiting scientists and devoid of any personal touches. Granted, it was better than anything he'd had during the last seventy years, but it wasn't his and it wasn't home… As if he even knew what that was anymore. Hell, he couldn't even imagine -

Bucky pulled himself up short. He was sliding back into his head, getting sappy again. A quick glance at the clock told him it was 4 a.m. The sun would be up in a few hours and sleep was impossible now anyway. Time to hit the library. There were whole worlds in there that had nothing to do with Bucky Barnes or Winter Soldiers or the shitfest that was his life. He could lose himself in the books for a while.

He grabbed a t-shirt out of a drawer, sat down on the edge of the bed and arranged it over his thighs then manoeuvred into it. _His biggest accomplishment so far,_ he thought as he pulled the front down over his chest. Learning to dress and take care of himself with one arm. And it _was_ a big deal. It meant he didn't have to rely on anyone - not for the personal stuff, at least - and he was more than happy about that. He stood up, took his room key and swipe card off the nightstand and shoved them into the pocket of his pajama pants. As he headed towards the door, he frowned. There was still a whole crowd of people he had to rely on for other things though - physiotherapists, psychotherapists, psychiatrists, prosthetists, doctors, nurses, scientists… all working to fix some part of him. The lock on the door clicked behind him and he started off down the verandah.

It wasn't that he wasn't grateful for their efforts. He knew what they were trying to do, and what's more they treated him like he mattered. Included him in decisions about his rehabilitation, almost tiptoed around his feelings. It was just… he wasn't used to it. Hydra had hauled him around like a slab of meat for almost seventy years. Stored him like one too when he wasn't on a 'mission' or undergoing weapons and field training. And the two years during which he'd managed to disappear off the radar – before Zemo had set his sights on him – had in no way prepared him for what was happening now either. He'd been always on the move and it had been safer - _easier_ \- to keep to himself and hold other people at bay as he pieced together his past. But now, to be thrust into all… _this_.

He reached the path between the med labs and the library, and stopped to check his surroundings before crossing the short stretch of open ground. Unnecessary, he knew, but a force of habit anyway. It was still and quiet. Dark too, except for the faint glow of a security light around the corner to his right. Nothing out of the ordinary. He liked to come here at dusk and watch the lightning bugs. They strung themselves out in the undergrowth and lit up the place like Christmas. Reminded him of the tree lighting ceremonies in McCarren Park, before the war. _Throngs of people, the buzz of the crowd, linking arms and singing carols. Music from the band. Speeches and soda. Getting smiles from pretty girls. Him and Steve, laughing and joking_ _…_

There were never any people around when he watched the fireflies here in Wakanda. No music or laughter either. Once the therapists and scientists had gone home for the day, he was the only one left in the fenced-off complex. A nurse had been rostered on for the first few nights but it soon become apparent that that was not necessary. And besides, Bucky was pretty sure the man had been - _uneasy_ at being left alone at night with a brainwashed assassin.

Arriving at the entrance to the library, he stopped and put his hand in his pocket for the swipe card - and froze. The dim night light in the foyer - visible through the glass front doors - was expected. The ribbon of light under the solid internal door beyond that was not. He was the only one who used the library now and he knew he'd turned off the main lights when he'd left earlier that night.

Senses sharpened, focus fixed (some things never changed) _,_ he tested the front doors. They were still locked. A sweep of the building's perimeter showed no sign of a break-in but he discovered an unlocked door at the rear. He cast his eye around for something to use as a weapon and spotted a length of pipe nearby. Left behind by the fencing crew, he guessed. He picked it up and hefted it in his hand; it would do the job.

The unlocked door opened onto a passageway that ran past the bathrooms and led to a back entrance to the library. Bucky swore under his breath as he was forced to put down his makeshift weapon; he would have preferred two hands right now. Pushing the second door open a crack, he scanned the room but the library was all angles and bookshelves and he swore again because he couldn't see very much. Couldn't hear anything either, so that was something. He held the door open with his foot, picked up the pipe, and slipped through.

The bookshelves and walls made for good cover, at least, and he silently worked his way around the room, checking out the hidden gaps and spaces as he closed in on the main study area. So far, so good, he thought as he approached the last corner. Nothing and no one. But as he was about to step out into the open, he stopped short. His eyes were drawn straight away to the low-slung couch in the middle of the room and he stared in confusion. Time shifted. The room too. _Brooklyn again, late 1920s. Before the moneymen took a nosedive and times got even harder. Rug-covered floorboards, dainty floral wallpaper, sturdy green drapes pulled against the night. The small, cosy parlor of home. A polished oak table, dark and heavy under the soft, yellow glow of a floor lamp. His mom_ _'s prized Quaker Lace tablecloth pushed to one side. Buckles and bows, sequins and beads, broken shells and pretty stones, all spilled out on the table, glinting in the light. And him and Becky, heads bent together, poring over the treasures._

He blinked, and the room shifted back. Time too. Books stacked on shelves, scanned and catalogued. Desks with computers. Sleek modern lines… Wakanda. He was in Wakanda, not Brooklyn. Whole lifetimes had passed, and he had to be dreaming. Because curled up on the couch in a Wakandan library, in a froth of sea-green lace and a cloud of wild, coal-black curls, was the fairy from the lid of his mom's old knick-knack tin.

 


End file.
